


{adonis}

by orphan_account



Series: adoring, adored [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Codependency, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>my eros my apollo, oh; golden boy the world tilts for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	{adonis}

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kylobe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylobe/gifts).



 

Dirk is on the roof that Sunday when you get home, sparring empty air and moving through sword forms like a gust of smoke, an electric afterimage in the stifling heat.  You could almost believe he was a mirage if it weren't for the sweat, flung from his body and spattering the concrete, dark flecks that evaporate in minutes.    
  
His body is beautiful the way a sword or any instrument of pure purpose must be: graceful, deadly, thrumming with intent.  
  
Back when you were settling into the place, Dirk decided his half of the rooftop was an open-air gym; he was used to training on concrete.  But your half is a garden, terracotta pots and greenery, hoses and bags of soil.  
  
And in the middle, a picnic table.  The umbrella is open, providing a little shade, and the August sun is brutal.  Sky cloudless, very little breeze.  So blue it aches and so bright you have to squint.  
  
You've only been up here for a minute or two but the ice cooler is already sweating as much as Dirk is, condensation pearling against the lid and sides, puddling by your feet.    
  
In summary: the flat was empty and you went looking, and now you've found him, and you've nothing to do.  So you sit down, pop the cap off a brown lager, and watch him.    
  
... _Damn.  Splendid_ , you think, a grin tugging your mouth lopsided.  A fresh heat simmers in your belly, unfurling like catching flame.  
  
Item of importance: Dirk hasn't noticed you yet.  It was a long, long time before you could walk into a room and Dirk wouldn't notice.  He must be aware of you right now, in a peripheral sense, but you don't trip the wire anymore.  No klaxon.  
  
(Second item of importance: Dirk is no longer waiting, breath held, for something to try to kill him.)  
  
The metal whirr of his blade through the air, the scuff of his shoes on the concrete - it isn't for survival, it's because he likes it.  You drink in your beer and the way he flits about, no pall of gloom to slow him down.  
  
 _... Ah._   Caught sight of you at last.  
  
Even at this distance - ten yards or so? - you see him jolt, pause.  Breathe.  Then sheathing the blade, tucking it away in his sylladex.  And then - as he approaches, lanky and dripping sweat - the thing that adds another dollop of petrol to the fire, gives you the sudden urge to sweep him off his feet and give him the old welcome-home-sailor.  He pulls his shades off without even pausing, setting them on the table.    
  
"Hi.  When did you get home?" he murmurs, eyes glued to your beer for a minute before he can drag them up to your face.  (And there they are, his orange pair, blinking in the shade after so much sunlight.)    
  
You try not to be distracted by the sweat sliding down his neck.  "Quarter past, I think.  I put away the groceries." ( _So there's no rush.  So take your time cooling off._ )  Dirk's brow furrows.  
  
"Sorry. I didn't... I don't think I heard you coming in."  
  
"Oh - no, don't be.  You looked like you were having fun."  
  
"... Yeah," Dirk agrees after some quiet deliberation, chin dipping in a small nod.  The corner of his mouth twitches up - that familiar awkward half-smile, stuck between happiness and the urge to hide it.  (Later.  Later you'll pull him the rest of the way.) "I was."  
  
You hold up a bottle of orange juice in a meaningful, _remember-to-rehydrate-after-strenuous-exercise, mind-your-electrolytes way_ , all smiles.  Dirk's face turns a bit pink across his cheekbones when he reaches out and accepts it, twisting the cap off and sipping.  
  
"You can sit down," you suggest, taking another long swig of your now-substantially-warmer beer.  There's a second seat across the table, but Dirk continues to stand, shifting from one foot to the other, eyes on your feet and the melting ice in the cooler.  
  
"... But I'll stick to you," Dirk says.  
  
"... Good," you breathe in a rasp much lower than you intended.  _Yeah.  Good._   "Hop to it, then."  
  
A glimpse, then, of that soft wide smile you hold so dear.  Eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to laugh.  "Yes, boss," Dirk deadpans, and straddles your thighs, arms draping over your shoulders.  
  
You aren't really sure how your hand found its way to the curve of his ass so quickly but you squeeze and he makes a soft little startled noise - _oh_ \- and your mouth finds his mouth and you're home, and he's right here in your arms, and all is right with the world.  
  
Soft thrum of his still-elevated heartbeat.  The smell of sweat and Dirk and sunscreen lotion - _oh, good boy, he remembered to apply it_. Utterly pleased with him. He is solid and compact in your arms, and his weight rests on your body and you are giddy about gravity, if only for the way this feels.  
  
Your joined mouths taste of orange juice and beer and it's revolting.  You appear to have mutually decided to solve the issue with a cleansing round of tonsil hockey.  Dirk is such a sporting fellow about these things.  
  
"- You're a little too hot," you say, forehead pressed to his a few minutes later.  
  
"Who, me, officer?" Dirk mumbles, the tip of his pink tongue running over his lips.  His hands are latched together behind your neck.  Yours are cradling his spine.  Dirk doesn't seem feverish yet, just - _hahah_ \- happy to see you.    
  
"And much too handsome."  He can't keep up the leer when you sweettalk him, although he makes a strong attempt.  
  
"... That means the beer's free, right?" he asks, and flutters his eyelashes at you.  
  
\- Ah.  Another lurch of desire in the pit of your stomach.  You aren't sure when you noticed, but lately, Dirk has been asking for your permission to drink - in his backwards stubborn Dirkish way.  It's - really cute, and you aren't sure why.  But it is.  How delightful, that he _wants_ you to decide.  (That he trusts in your decisions.)  
  
"Let's get you hosed down and dried off, first, and then we'll talk," you murmur, fingers slipping under his shirt, caressing his backbone.  
  
The grateful look he gives you for an instant, before the artificial pout - the flash of a car mirror hitting sunlight, brief and blinding.  " _No fun allowed_ ," he mutters into your ear.  
  
You press your lips to his temple.  " _None whatsoever_ ," you whisper back.  
  
The actual hose-down ( _soaping him up, rinsing him off, his fingers rubbing your scalp as he works the shampoo into a lather_ ) is a brisk and short affair, but it feels almost as intimate as the sex.

Bracing his back against the wall and locking his thighs around your waist, the little gasp of surprise when you step back and his abs flex, keeping him upright, barely supported by your hands.  Arms around your neck, the squeeze when he pushes himself up and the tremor when he eases back down.  The way he tilts his chin up, up, back, and the spray of the showerhead hits his bare neck; mouth open, eyes shut, panting. 

The foolish besotted things that come tumbling out of your mouth.  
  
Afterwards you bask in a companionable silence, Dirk sipping water and sorting mail while you putter about making sandwiches.  
  
These are your days, now, dawn and noon and dusk; at times so perfect you wonder if you're dreaming.  
  


* * *

 

 

_summer heat cicada buzzing, the ache.  sleeping in the shade I dream and of you until to my arms to me you return bright and glittering. was it not ever thus? to me to me always returning, wild bird accustomed now to eat from human hands.  hushed and hesitant but will not now fly from only towards. (it was with honey I caught you, not vinegar.)_  
  
 _oh and oh how lovely you are mouth and tongue soft all things yielding-soft when I am kissing you - right here safe. warm. mine.  how lovely (mine) when you are as you ought to pliant-yielding be for me. for me all only me you are._  
  
 _in my in dreams you are christ you are and brow beset with thorns and you let me one at a time let me pull them out.  blood saltwater and then it's done, all better.  my hands red with you._  
  
 _thorn after thorn at a time I pluck them out and clean, clean and whole you are new flesh wet and scarless.  oh for your bloody brow, damp eyes, only kisses.  only my touch my creature, I shall draw every one out and gently I will gentle you._  
  
 _your skin weds mine._  
  
 _let me only.  here and here and this and with these I marry you to me.  all and all right? for you only._  
  
 _you are for kissing this and here and here as well for kissing.  soft for me sweet-alone good for me you are._  
  
 _fly closer._  
  
 _soft and yes soft you are touching to the touch (mine) and yes good you are yes you are mine my good my tender thing.  my hands gentle see yes gentle.  never thorns for you never._  
  
 _oh tender thing, you are not for thorns._  
  


* * *

  
Sunday night, after dinner.  Something more prolonged, like a chess game: Dirk rubs your leg with his foot under the table while discussing rap albums, you crowd him against the sink pretending to help wash the dishes, he pets the hair at the nape of your neck when you're both sprawled on the couch and distracts you from the shitty TV, and so on and so forth, and eventually you're in bed, and he's wiggling underneath you while you fuck him, just the way he likes it.  
  
You like it best when you keep your wits enough to watch Dirk fall to pieces, watch bliss transform him.    
  
The knowledge that he's _safe_ and _yours_ and numb with pleasure.  You hunger for him, yes, but also to control for a short time what he's allowed to feel, what he's allowed to experience. To know with your ears and eyes and hands and tongue that he is here, and yours, and that it's good for him.  
  
Know that while you hold him, nothing else can.  
  
You want to construct for him an Eden.  Hold off the tide, so he can catch his breath.  Silence the roar and give him sleep without nightmares.  Build him a future and take him by the wrist and lead him away, a step at a time, from the jagged edge of his wounds.  
  
It translates to the way you touch him, look at him, hold him; to the way you think and breathe and exist.  The desire to take care of the people you love; the desire to wrap around them like a living shield, to lead them to a place where they can walk barefoot without care, never having to watch the ground for shards of glass.  
  
Always, in the back of your head, that persistent draw: _what is Dirk doing now?_ How can you undo every knot of tension in his body, how can you feed him nectar and ambrosia, how can you own a little more of him, taking whatever he offers to you a sliver at a time?  A yearning to possess the way you think gods must yearn; to seize your beloved by the heart and lead him away to paradise.  
  


* * *

  
  
_my eros my apollo, oh; golden boy the world tilts for you. dream or waking alike you warm to touches, mine._  
  
 _"_ when? _"  (when, the thorns.)_  
  
 _never, never I tell him and "_ when? _" again, he asks again._  
  
 _without words only skin wed to skin I show him: never, by hands by silent mouth by touch: never, never, and still the boy cries when? - oh, my tender-broken thing, never._  
  
 _scale by scale the old maille sloughs off and beneath it you are tender mine and tender.  forever, I will outlive iron I will outlive rust and this I promise you: never._  
  
 _you are not for that._

 

* * *

  
  
You know that he's always waiting for the other shoe to drop, somewhere deep and byzantine below the surface.  The pessimist confronted with a good thing that keeps on being good, and doesn't seem to flag or falter.  Dirk is better now; he spends less time anticipating the end, more time secure and solid in your possession.  You like it.  You like it when he forgets to worry about anything, and lets you make him feel good.  Like it when he lies back like this, ribcage heaving, lips wet and open as he breathes, and blimey isn't it _something_ that he still goes loopy just from your kisses?  You would kiss him -  
  


" _Forever, darling, forever_ ," you murmur into his skin.  Two fingers inside him, feeling the rings of muscle tense and then relax, accepting.  Warm and slick and _tight_ and his face is the shade of wild roses, pink and flushing.  It's so pretty, he's just so pretty - handsome, you try to say, because you know he's got all these ideas about what men are supposed to look like and what sort of adjectives are good ones but you can't help it.  Your boy is _gorgeous._   It ought to be a crime.

"Jake, uhhh...  Jake, I need... _please_ hurry," Dirk slurs out, the heels of his feet digging into your hips, his cock flushed and dripping wet against his stomach.  His jaw is slack, his body is laid out all yours to touch and have and kiss and keep and fuck, he's just - divine.  Want to make him forget everything but this, the way it feels to be fucked nice and slow and easy and belong to you.  Forget how to do anything but wrap his legs around your waist and urge you closer.  "I'm - yeah - please, I wanna -"

" _Shhh, I've got you,"_ you tell him, low harsh rasp against his forehead.  He makes a soft lovely noise in the back of his throat and pants, eyes half-shut, for breath; it wrenches at your arousal in a whole new way that that reassurance is enough to calm him down, restore the glassy peace in his expression.  Such a good boy, so good for you. His hands are up by his shoulders, gripping the sheets and kneading at them; you didn't tell him to put his hands up, you don't even need to tie him down to keep him here like this.  He laid back and spread his legs for you, long limbs relaxed against the bedsheets, while you were still in the doorway; you could have fainted dead away just seeing that, knowing it was for you, and you didn't even ask him to.  Dirk surrendering to you will always do gigantic things to your libido.  _Yours_ , all yours.  Perfect.

"Ah, ah, _ah_ -" he pants when you slide the third finger in, and you push the hair off his damp forehead and press a kiss between his eyes and his smile is so soft and perfect, silent laughter, delight.  Sucking his lower lip between your teeth until it's swollen and red like his - lovely - erection, just as wet, just as soft as he is inside, where you're stroking and rubbing and coaxing him to open up further, buried to your knuckles.  A fierce, tender feeling rising in your chest; your lovely thing, your pretty boy, you'll never hurt him, you'll never let anything hurt him again - these are the moments you believe that's possible.  Melting and sticky and sweet.  Yours, yours, yours.

"So good, baby, so good for me," you croon, barely aware of what you're saying, only that your throat needs to make sounds of approval.  "Perfect.  So perfect, god.  My good boy."

Dirk blinking away the wetness in his eyes, unable to stop smiling, knees twitching against your ribs.  "Jake -"  The little hitch of wide-eyed awe when you press in and rub circles over his prostate, slow and teasing.  The way his mouth trembles and his adam's apple bobs in his throat.  Looking up at you like you discovered electricity and nuclear fusion.

\- Only this, he should only ever feel this good.  It was a bastard move of Aphrodite's to kidnap Adonis and keep him forever in her garden but you understand her feelings.  A perfect vulnerable thing, got to lock it up in a tower, got to wrap it up in chains and keep it safe (because it's yours) and make sure, make absolutely sure that nothing ever hurts it again - and you resent every source of Dirk's suffering like a personal offense, a challenge to your godhood, a glove thrown.  Want to possess every last atom of him.  Want to keep him armorless and simple in your hands, under your body, as if you could protect him from the universe.  Every soft spot defenseless because you are the defender; shield forgotten because you've become it.  Jugular artery, femoral artery, soft white stomach.  Yes.  You understand Venus all too well.

"- just a little longer," you hear yourself murmuring, "just a little more, so I can look at you -"

Gulping for air and shaking like a leaf when you finally center yourself and push in, eyelids fluttering; his pulse hot and gripping you like his body never wants you to leave, and all Dirk does is coax you further in, closer, _here, have more of me, take all of this -_ it's difficult not to climax, you have to pause and catch your breath and kiss his cheeks and nose and chin and mouth like a mad desperate man.  Nothing feels more right.  Nothing feels as good as this does.  Sinking deep into a simple hungry part of yourself: _yes mine good mine lovely perfect thing, mine all mine forever._

Keeping him here, in the gauze-wrapped sanctuary where only you and he exist.  Dragging him through wave after wave of hot, liquid need, pushing in and drawing back only to return, here and solid.  The place where you own him the most, and you are so careful, make him buck and howl and cry with how good it feels, brushing off anything else.  So you _have_ him, so he knows you have him, so he sees how nice it feels to be tamed and kept _(by you only by you only ever you)_ , persuade him that it's good.  Make him see how lovely it is. 

God almighty he's perfect, he feels like being home again, like cold water after a drought, like hot cocoa in winter.  More more more.  More, further, even more.  All of him.  You want every last particle and here, here you have it.

Drowsy and dreamlike, reaching between your stomachs and feeling the mess of pre-ejaculate, sliding it around his stomach, wrapping your hand around him and rubbing your thumb tenderly against the dripping tip.  On another plane of reality.  Lost in the rhythm of in, out, in, harder, more.  Good and yours and perfect.

_\- come for me, go ahead, you're so pretty when you do, baby, I love it when you lose it -_

The surge of his body, arms wrapping around your neck, that broken beautiful cry.  The paroxysms, the way his whole body surrenders, toes curling, everything drowned in pleasure.  How he clamps down around you impossibly tight and the muscles ripple, holding you in.  Bodies inseparable, wedded at every joint.

Your last conscious thought: _\- yes_. 

You give him this.

 

* * *

 

 

_oh lover, oh mine and good and yes and lovely.  every breath mine every inhale exhale repeat.  sound of heaven falling closer, noise of a vast wind - fly higher with me for in my arms. within them you are everything are mine and perfect. symphony coda repeat._

_beautiful creature:_

_you are not for thorns; you are for marrying._


End file.
